Aether's consciousness flickered like a dying flame under the scorching desert sun. His eyelids felt impossibly heavy, weighed down by exhaustion and the brutal reality of his surroundings. The sun beat down mercilessly, every ray piercing his skin. Even breathing felt like inhaling liquid fire.
"Wake up!" he croaked, his voice cracked and desperate. His fingers clawed at the burning sand, each grain like a needle against his palms. "Wake up..."
A shadow passed over his face, offering momentary relief. He squinted upward. The darkness around the figure dissolved like ink in water, revealing a presence he instantly recognized.
"Text?" he whispered, lifting a trembling hand to shield his eyes. Sand cascaded from his sweat-soaked skin.
A soft, knowing laugh drifted down. "Yeah..." Text's voice carried warmth—gentler than the desert's heat, almost paternal.
She stood tall against the horizon of endless dunes, her desert attire an elegant fusion of Arab and Berber traditions. The rugged tunic bore the colors of sun-bleached bone and desert rose. A scarf danced around her neck in the breeze, whispering with its fringed edges.
But it was the Rasvian energy radiating from Text's head that truly held Aether's gaze. It pulsed like a living heartbeat, deep amber and burnt orange waves distorting the air, bending reality. The desert shimmered with the energy, transforming into something both beautiful and terrifying.
Aether stared, breath caught. Even Ghost had never looked this awe-inspiring. His fingers unconsciously reached out toward the swirling aura.
"This dimension is in your mind..." Text's sentence snapped him out of the trance. Grunting, Aether pushed himself up, his sweat-soaked singlet clinging to his skin. Sand tumbled from his body in gritty avalanches.
Text watched, amused. "The outfit the tour guide gave you, how is it? It saved you from a lot of mishaps."
"Yeah, what about it?" Aether asked, still brushing himself off. He then paused. Is it possible to talk to your starter pack? It's probably because of my story skill.
"You can change it—armor, robes, still has to be wearable. It won't increase in grade, still peak adept, but the form's yours." Text demonstrated, her own attire rippling like water.
"Armor?" Aether blinked, intrigued, glancing down at his clothes.
Text moved about with effortless grace, her feet leaving no prints. "Try it later—after you wake up."
"Not this again..." Aether muttered. He took a shaky step into the air, uncertain and wobbly. But slowly, he found balance. A small, triumphant smile formed.
Text's face turned serious, the pulses of energy slowing. "You're not sticking to your role, Tour guide. The longer you stray, the weaker your original skill becomes. You may even develop a new one. And if you do…"
"Then I lose my starter pack. I lose you," Aether whispered. The thought stole his breath. His flight faltered.
Text floated closer, her energy dimming. "I've tried. I still can't figure out where you came from. When you appeared at the museum—when the tour guide gave you your story skill, and me—it wasn't deliberate. You're like a newborn. You died, Aether. I'm sorry. I'm not great with emotions. Just what the tour guide wrote. But I'll cry with you. I know you want to cry."
Aether couldn't hold it back any longer. "Yeah..." he whispered as tears spilled down his cheeks, hot and heavy.
Text joined him. Tears glowed as they streaked down her face, restrained but genuine. She placed a hand on Aether's shoulder, a soft pulse of comfort passing between them.
"Better now?" she asked gently as Aether's sobs turned to hiccups.
Aether looked up. His eyes, red and swollen, seemed clearer somehow.
"Yeah," he said, wiping his face. A flicker of curiosity returned. "The flatcid I imagined... was it close to the real thing?"
Text smiled. "Closer than you'd think. But it has more mandibles. And the sensory hairs are harder to cut. You wouldn't be able to stand on its back." She chuckled, pride in her voice. "But you still won."
Aether glanced around the desert. "So... where to now?"
Text extended an arm toward the horizon. "Look there," she said, pointing to where the landscape blurred—the edge of Aether's imagination.
Frustration crept into Aether's voice. He slapped his cheeks, trying to force himself awake. "Why can't I just wake up?"
"That fight was—" Text began.
"Why did you want me to fight a desert creature specifically?" Aether cut in, suspicious.
Text brightened. "You're going to meet a squidi soon. They keep faltcids as pets. To earn their trust..."
"Don't tell me I have to fight more faltcids..." Aether groaned.
"Pretty much," Text replied, grinning. "The squidi are high-ranking, almost noble from the central district. If you impress them, it opens doors—like the retrieval wars. Imagine where that could lead."
"You really thought that far ahead?" Aether asked, shaking his head.
Text floated closer, placing a warm hand on Aether's cheek. "Who wouldn't? You won't—because you're still a baby." She smiled fondly. "You've grown six inches in just a few days. That's insane."
Aether reached toward the edge of the dream, his fingers brushing the boundary. It rippled like disturbed water.
"You should get that implant the old man mentioned," Text advised, watching as Aether's hand flickered, sleeve-less and fading.
"Thinking of it—" Aether began, but his voice cut off.
A strange force gripped him. The air shimmered like heat waves. Golden dunes fractured into shards of light. Something tugged at his core—as if he were unraveling from the inside.
His body twisted, pulled toward a swirling point of shadow and light. It wasn't physical. It felt molecular. He looked down. His limbs dissolved, stretching into streaks of energy, then threads spiraling into the vortex.
"Uh huh," came Text's voice, distant and soft, the last echo as consciousness reclaimed him.